Over the Rainbow
by Myrielle
Summary: Post Avengers. Banished from Asgard and stripped of his powers, Loki falls through time to meet a young Jane Foster who no longer has stars in her eyes.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except the plot. Everything else belongs to Marvel. Not done for profit either, seriously.

Summary: Post Avengers. Banished from Asgard and stripped of his powers, Loki falls through time to meet a young Jane Foster who no longer has stars in her eyes.

_A/N: I am basing this version of Jane F. on the movie. And since the movies have not mentioned anything about her background, I've decided to have some fun and imagine. _

**Over the Rainbow**

**I.**

The great hall of gold had never gleamed with such menace. Loki despised the thought even as it flittered through his mind like an annoying bug he could not swat away. And that metaphorical bug in turn reminded him that he truly was in no condition to be swatting anything; it was far more likely that he was about to be crushed. A glance down confirmed that his hands were still manacled, bound by metal set with deep Asgardian magic; he wondered how many of his teachers had worked on creating it. 'Probably all of them,' he smirked, but it remained unseen, covered by the metal mask set upon his mouth to seal his lips and still his tongue. He could have screamed and no sound would have escaped the enchanted steel.

Upon the great golden throne sat Odin and all the force of his stare was directed at Loki. He glared at the man whom he had once called 'Father', and then turned haughtily away. It looked like arrogance, but it was really pain and again, Loki despised himself for such weakness, for even being here in the first place. He had been outfought, outwitted, outnumbered even though he had had an entire army at his disposal. It just wasn't fair…. A tremor ran up his spine and he suppressed it with mighty effort. If he was going to die, it would be with dignity and a smirk upon his lips. Better to bury all inside than be a walking wound before the blind men he hated and loved.

He stopped several feet from the gilded stairs and behind him, the heavy steps of his one-time brother ceased as well. Thor. The name was enough to drive away coherent thought, leaving a mass of seething emotions peppered with flashes of ruined glory and foiled triumphs. Thor. He was always in the way, always.

The hatred emanating from Loki was palpable. Bound as he was, it sizzled in the magic around him, touched the air thick with enchantments and spread, like oil over water, stained the atmosphere like black ink spilled over a page. Odin sighed inwardly; there would hardly be any point in removing the chains and mask. Nothing Loki said would be of use and it might anger him further. 'Or sadden,' the god thought, his one clear eye settled on the son who refused to bend his knee or even indicate he was in the presence of his king. He could not see that he had broken his father's heart.

"Loki Odinson," he spoke and stopped when the prince's emerald eyes snapped to meet his. If Loki could have had his way, Odin would have perished on the spot. There was a world of pain in those once innocent eyes and once again, Odin wondered where he had gone wrong. Honesty was a double-edged sword and Odin had done everything to prevent Loki from feeling that pain. His weakness had become his son's weakness. "Will you confess to your crimes?"

In that great empty hall, Loki tilted up his chin arrogantly, straightening his shoulders. He could feel the anger roiling off Thor in waves, and it made him smile. The corners of his eyes lifted and he arched a dark graceful brow. It was the physical equivalent of the Midgard expression, "Are you serious?"

"I thought so."

For a moment, the resignation in Odin's voice registered and inside, deep inside, he felt a part of him that he had been unable to fully kill off soften in response. 'Treachery,' he hissed, hardening his heart. 'Fool.' And felt merciful cold settle once more. After all, he was what he was and his true nature could not be concealed. He had learnt that during the long fall into darkness.

"For war waged against Midgard, for collaborating with a war-mongering race, you must be punished. You have disgraced the realm that claims you as Prince." All merriment died from Loki's eyes. "Yes, I still claim you as Prince, Odinson." The older god's gaze never wavered, not even when Loki stepped forward, unable to control his rage. Behind him, Thor moved a hand but stopped when he realised there was nothing his younger brother could do. "As your brother was banished for his arrogance, so shall you be for yours. That you may see you are equals—"

"No, Father. The people of Midgard look for Loki. I brought him back to face your justice because it would be tempered with mercy," Thor interrupted.

"Be still!" Odin roared and the walls shook. It was possible Asgard shook. The sound of it was deafening and for a moment Loki wondered just who was actually the God of Thunder. "You do not pronounce judgement here," he continued, voice soft and controlled yet pregnant with warning.

Thor knew that look. He had seen it laid upon him and he knew there was no intervention he could make, at least none short of angering Odin to the point of punishing both sons. Yet he could not bring himself to move back, to stop shielding Loki who was hidden behind the red cloak and his brother's broad frame.

Once, when they had been young and the worlds innocent, Loki had played too mischievous a trick and Thor had taken the blame for it. He could still recall the sound of Odin thrashing his older brother while he cried with shame and fear from behind closed doors, safely wrapped in Frigga's arms. Hours later, he sought his brother in the darkness of the vast gardens and found him sitting under a great tree whose branches seemed to touch the heavens above. Thor was dry-eyed, but the reddish tint to his nose gave away the fact that he had wept previously. And weep again he did, when Loki like a small shadow slunk to his side and put his arms around him.

He was not that boy anymore. Stepping out from behind, Loki shouldered Thor aside, defiance blazing from every line on his face. Reaching deep down, he drew on the magic that was an inherent part of his nature and this time when he spoke, it was into Odin's mind.

'You are a coward, old man. You leave the worms that crawl on that blasted planet to strike the blow which would mark you as you truly are!'

Thor was nowhere as skilled in the arts of sorcery as Loki was but even he sensed something was amiss when Odin flinched, drawing back against his throne before rising to his feet.

"I will do as I must. As you will if you want to live."

"Father…"

Both Loki and Odin ignored Thor. Shadows grew on the walls and Odin seemed to grow in stature, his staff in hand as he loomed over the younger god and the flames which lit the great hall stirred as though moved by a great wind. The sky was turning rapidly turning an angry grey.

Then Odin stretched out a hand and Loki felt himself seized in a grip more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. A master sorcerer he was, but here was magic he could not defy.

"I now take from you your power…"

It was a cruel parody of what had happened to Thor, of what had been his first definitive moment of victory. The cloak fell from his shoulders, the clasps flung to the floor by invisible fingers.

"In the name of my father…"

Gauntlets shattered, smiting his skin in a shower of golden shards that fell like rain upon the ground. And Loki felt something more being stripped away from him, peeled off from the inside out. He thought he might have screamed.

"And his father before…"

He tried to fight back, but his magic was buffeted, smothered, strangled before he could even give it birth. The chest plate he wore seemed to melt and vanish into air, leaving him exposed to the wrath that now laid him bare.

"I, Odin All-Father, cast you out!"

Then there was light enough to set a thousand horizons afire and Loki felt his feet leave the ground. A vacuum was opening, he could sense it but his eyes were seared shut by the agonising glare. Then he was tumbling, fingers grasping the air reflexively and for one moment, he thought he felt another's hand brush his. Then the moment passed and once more Loki fell into an abyss.

His heart was going to burst out of his ribs and try as he might, he could not get his bearings. This was different, this was not the same as when he had let go. This was out of his control. Every instinct screamed that he had to do something, and quickly, if he wanted to survive.

"_I will do as I must. As you will if you want to live…" _

Instead of screaming his everlasting hatred of Odin, Loki clamped his mouth shut behind the mask that sealed it, and focused. It took every ounce of control he possessed but gradually the eerie sensation of falling faded into the background of his mind. He could not feel the cold of the wormhole, he did not mind the sensation of being unable to breath, nothing else mattered save for the luminous glimmer he could see in his mind's eye. Rising from the centre of his being, it grew, tendrils extending, flickering like the stars, building into a cocoon that wrapped his body in a protective shield. Luminescence spread, a torch in the dark and Loki could suddenly see. There were doors, openings that rushed past, tunnels in the belly of space that led to galaxies beyond his wildest dreams.

…_As you will if you want to live…will if you want to live…_

Mustering all his strength, Loki reached and the fabric of the universe shuddered, groaned under the onslaught of his attack. And miracle of miracles, it tore. Darting out like a firefly, he soared, fell and his fingers clamped on the edge of something hard. For a moment he hung there in limbo. Then a force stronger than gravity took hold of the weakened god and before he could decide if this was where he ought to go, it grabbed him, pulled him in and Loki, drained of his powers and shackled, passed out.

* * *

She was twenty-two and for all intents and purposes, she had buried herself away from the world.

Jane Foster sat by the lake, unaware of the flicker of lightning across a clear blue sky. The morning sun shone down, illuminating the waters, glancing off the windows of her father's house but doing little to chase away the pallor on her face.

" _In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman/Rises toward her day after day__…"_ Yes, that was it. This glassy surface reminded her of a mirror. If she tried hard enough, she would be able to hear her mother's soft voice, reading. She would see them again, a trinity made whole. Her father would be buried in his medical journals, her mother would be reading while writing her latest novel, Jane would just be there, comfortable in the knowledge that all was right with the world.

Not anymore. Eight months ago she had woken up and found that the funeral had long since been over. Erik Selvig, an old family friend and brilliant astrophysicist whom Jane suspected had been in love with her mother all his life, had taken care of the arrangements, had seen to it that she had been admitted to the best hospital in the state, had acted on behalf of non-existent relatives because that had been written into her parents' will. She had money, enough of it. What Jane feared was that she had lost her heart.

It was difficult to feel anything. She was not even angry with the driver who had ploughed into all three of them as they crossed the road, simply because he had wanted to shave a few minutes off his travel time. Her parents had flung themselves in front of her. Her last memory was of her blond and brown-eyed father, staring at her in terror as he tried to shield his wife. It had been like looking in a mirror. Maybe if she got angry, she would never stop being angry. That was how Jane rationalised it anyway.

Trips to the counsellor and various psychologists did nothing to pull her out of her shell. "I'm okay," she insisted when Erik wanted to bring her to yet another doctor. "I don't want to talk about it."

She tried to drop out of university; instead she received an indefinite leave of absence. The first time she drew the curtains over the windows, Jane realised that not looking at the stars could be a source of comfort. It had been harder to get rid of her textbooks on astrophysics. She managed to bin them by sneaking down the stairs early in the morning and rearranging the books on the shelf in the guestroom Erik had prepared for her. And then one morning he had caught her and between her angry refusals and his adamant insistence that she seek help, Jane decided to leave, especially when the family lawyer called to inform her that Dr Foster's last purchase had been a lake house. It was far away enough, the setting was as isolated as it got and best of all, nobody there would know her.

One short letter and plane ticket later, she was off and alone. "I'll call once a week," she had promised in deep blue ink on the page she slipped under Erik's room door. Others might have thought she looked peaceful, sitting on the plane with the screen down and the supplied headphones over her ears. Jane knew better; she was just blessedly numb.

"Rises towards her day after day," Jane mouthed the words, feeling them on her tongue. "Like a terrible fish." As though to punctuate her sentence, something nearby hopped into the water with a disturbingly loud splash, startling her. And because she finally looked up, Jane Foster saw that the sky was a churning mass of roiling clouds that looked more solid than any she had ever seen in her life. Wind struck the water then, throwing up waves before it smashed them, turned them into little liquid missiles that struck her repeatedly as she gasped and retreated.

Wiping her face and eyes, she looked up once more and blinked. For the first time in a very long time, something wrenched at her chest, an emotion that she was intimately acquainted with. Fear. For the sky had somehow lowered itself and the clouds were writhing, serpentine as they danced circles around a spot that seemed to fold in on itself and…open.

She was mad. Maybe Erik was right; she should have seen those doctors. Or taken the medication. She was hallucinating, although the scrape of fingernails on her flesh felt real enough to convince her that she was still in the real world. A slap later and Jane knew she was. What eluded her still was the fact that a giant wormhole was forming above the lake and near the shore where she was standing.

Aliens. The apocalypse. And then it was impossible to think above the wild howling that formed and she dropped to her knees, fingers digging into the soil as the wind threatened to toss her like a leaf. The lightning was bright enough to light up the darkness behind closed lids and Jane screamed in terror. She had to get out, get into the house for cover.

At the moment when she opened her eyes, she saw a figure—a person— fall like a comet into the water. And everything went still. The wind dissipated, the clouds stilled as white began to diffuse through them once more. The lake, like Plath's mirror, swallowed him immediately.

For a long second, Jane could only stare at the spot, utterly lost. Then something in her moved, snapped. "Shit," she swore, kicking off her shoes and throwing her jacket to the ground before plunging into the lake.

"Eyes on the spot, Jane. Head above water," she muttered as she swam for all she was worth. When she reached the place where she was sure he had fallen, Jane sucked in a deep breath and dived. In spite of the sting, she kept her eyes wide open. But the storm had stirred the mud beneath and the water was cloudy. Surfacing again, she inhaled before going back down. Lungs burning, she searched around, a strange desperation filling her. For what seemed like endless minutes, she travelled between the world above and the one below, hands grasping, feet kicking to stay under.

She couldn't lose him, whatever he was. She could not standstill and do nothing. Not again. When her hand snagged something solid and she felt an arm beneath her fingers, she grabbed, pulled him closer. He was a lot heavier than she expected but fierce determination and what she suspected was a hell of a dose of adrenaline lent her the strength she needed. Jane gasped greedily as she broke the water's surface, drawing air into almost emptied lungs. Slipping her arms beneath his, she cushioned his body with her own as she struck out for the shore.

It wasn't until he fell from her hands onto the wet shore that she saw the mask. It looked like a device someone would use on Hannibal Lector and equally bizarre. Dropping to her knees, Jane felt frantically behind his head, pulling and tugging. To her relief, it slipped off, as though the fall had loosened or partially dislodged it somehow. She tried not to notice the chains on his hands as she opened his mouth, sealed her own over it and exhaled, her fingers pinching his nostrils shut. Next, slender fingers traced a quick path down his chest, found the spot she was looking for and she folded her hands together, pressing down hard again and again.

"Breathe. Breathe," she murmured, unaware of her quiet chanting in between the breaths of air she gave him. She did not see the slight flickering of eyelids, not until he opened them and Jane Foster found herself staring into the most mesmerising eyes she had ever seen.

Green like emeralds. Green for envy. Green like a sea of clovers. They were, she decided there and then, magical.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except the plot. Everything else belongs to Marvel. Not done for profit either, seriously.

Summary: Post Avengers. Banished from Asgard and stripped of his powers, Loki falls through time to meet a young Jane Foster who no longer has stars in her eyes.

_A/N: Hey everyone, thank you so much for reviewing! You made my Muse sing and she came up with this. Seriously though, it is always lovely to hear what works and even what does not. Writing is always an enjoyable challenge. This chapter has a change in tense and I'm going to make it permanent. For some reason, I had to write it this way. I hope you like this too! _

**Over the Rainbow**

**II.**

In his dreams, Loki fights on. The gate has opened, his army is streaming down into Earth's atmosphere and as he stands atop Stark Tower, he feels the wind brush his face, a phantom caress as though in approval of all he has wrought. The pieces are falling into places.

Fires light the city, stretch as far as the eye can see and as he digs in his heels and grapples mightily with his brother, Loki laughs. Concrete, flesh, metal, all will burn as an offering unto him, unto a god the likes of which the earthlings have never seen and they will bow to a mind and arm capable of guiding them, of moulding them into a race that will reach dizzying heights of glory. Asgard on earth. This will be his golden kingdom and it will last for an eternity. From beneath, Loki will reach up and steal the ground from under Odin's feet before he even realises what has happened.

And then too quickly, too fast, it all goes wrong. The shadows come, wrapping the city in darkness and he is left in the void, staring helplessly as reality, what had been his to possess is swept away by a black tempest; it simply ceases to be.

There is a sound, soft at first, but it grows in strength and volume until it is all that exists. It maddens him. Loki slams his hands over his ears, tries to run but finds his feet tethered to the ground. He presses so hard that numbness creeps over his fingers and he can feel them no more but the sound keeps growing as it pours over him, gnaws at him and eats him inside out. It is only when he is being consumed alive that Loki realises what the sound is: he has been screaming all this time.

* * *

With a start, Jane comes awake, and realises what it is that has startled her. Her otherworldly guest is groaning in his sleep. Pale, fine features contort savagely and although it is bright outside and within the house, the automatic fireplace is doing a fine job of heating up the room, she shivers. Sitting up on the sofa, she tucks in her feet, clutches a cushion like a shield, and studies him. He looks human, but she knows he clearly is not. Her mind flashes to abandoned essays and a half-written thesis, and for an instant, Jane sees in her mind a brilliant star strewn bridge, tunnels that gleam incandescent like the Aurora Borealis against inky space. And then she shuts it all down, seals it away back where it came from.

"_Janey, my little star…" _

"What matters is that I saved him," she mutters aloud to convince herself. But then he jerks hard and in spite of the pillows and bedspreads she has placed him on, and the thick quilt she has bundled him in after cutting the wet clothes from his body, the impact is loud enough to be heard. She might have saved him from drowning, but the man is trapped somewhere inside his head. She should wake him up, she really should. Instead, she merely sits there and looks at him and wonders whether she has ever looked like that in sleep. He is her perfect portrait of pain and if she cannot bear to see herself, she will find the traces in him.

A solitary clock sits on the mantelpiece and for the first time, she hears its ticking. Both of them have slept the morning away and it is now mid-afternoon. It has become the norm for her, there is a relief, an end of sorts when she closes her eyes and gives in to the tiredness. She doubts he sleeps for the same reason as she does.

He twists, wrapped in a mix of cotton and satin, and his fingers flex with a franticness that is alarming. His bound hands move as though they are searching for something, someone. This time, she notices the perspiration that beads his brow, slicks down the base of his throat and into his hair. She has never seen hair that black. Darker than a raven's sheen, as though it would suck in all light and colour.

'He might have a temperature. You have to check him.' The thought runs through her head repeatedly. He is only a few feet away but Jane finds there is distance. Already the memory of the morning seems unbelievable; she finds it unbelievable that she had even done anything. He is a stranger and they were her parents. Bitterness like a lash lays open old wounds and in that moment, Jane thinks she would trade his life for theirs if she could have saved them.

The decision is taken from her when he surfaces with a gasp, a half cry that dies immediately upon seeing his surroundings. It is a quick reaction, a highly controlled one. There is no confusion, no vulnerable sense of being lost emanating from him. Instead, what greets her is a hard wariness as he finds her at once. It is uncanny and impressive.

"Hello," she whispers because she has no idea what to do or what would be an appropriate reaction under these circumstances.

Loki does not say anything because he does not trust his voice not to break. His mouth is as dry as a desert, his throat burns like fire and he needs to concentrate hard to stop each image from splitting into two. He can still hear the ghost of a scream. In spite of all this, he is alive after falling to Midgard and will survive to tell the tale. As he stares at the girl who has found him, several things—all alarming—make themselves known to him. The first is that his clothes are missing. Beneath the small mountain of blankets, he is keenly aware that he is as naked as the day he was born. The second is that the mask that sealed his mouth is gone, but the chains on his hands are still present.

Curiosity, the need to know which has always been a drug in his veins, drives him to speak. "You removed the mask?" His voice is little more than a raspy growl.

She nods and Loki looks down, mostly to cover up his shock. For all his might and magic, that slight, almost mousy looking creature has done what he could not perform. What sorcery did she possess? Not all earthlings were completely helpless, and he has learnt to his eternal fury that their powers are not as negligible as he originally thought.

And that is when the third and worst thing occurs to Loki. For when he tries to reach out to touch her with his mind, to feel her aura and peer into her secrets, he finds that he cannot. Nothing happens, nothing stirs; it is as though someone has cut his arms off and he is only discovering it now because there is nothing to obey the given command. Coldness that has nothing to do with his Jotunn heritage touches a part inside him so deep that he has no name for it. Without thinking, he casts the net of his will wider in a bid to move beyond the girl, beyond this dwelling and to his horror, he finds he cannot. There is nothing but the four walls and her. There is no life force to be felt, no complicated web that holds all things together which he can pluck, weave and bend to his manipulations. All is barren. No, he is barren for he cannot feel. And for the first time, Loki knows what it is like to truly be imprisoned.

His face has turned even paler, the lips almost white. Those haunting eyes, at first narrowed with effort to do something she could not hope to fathom, now go wide and glaze over. It is when he begins gasping that Jane realises he is going into shock. He can't breathe.

Later she would wonder if it was the scientist in her that would not let an alien die, or the fact that she was her father's daughter and he had been a doctor. He lets out a particularly ghoulish choking sound and that is the push that becomes the shove to get her on her feet. The varnished wooden floor is hard on her knees as she helps him sit up, pulling away the blankets and tugs him forward, setting him on all fours. Pushing his head down slightly, she tells him to breathe, her hand locked on his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his waist as far as it can go because he is stubborn enough to struggle.

His position, literally and figuratively, is humiliating beyond words. But the girl will not release him and he does not have the strength to fight anymore. Then he realises that sweet, sweet air is filling his lungs and nothing else matters.

Jane does not know how little or much time has passed. She is blissfully unaware, even as she continues to support him, that Loki has considered crushing her throat with his manacled hands, simply to vent his rage at Odin who has stolen his power, or that he thinks he should enslave her so that he has something to use even in this helpless state. Her warm hands on his skin are the worst kind of gall because he needs them in order not to collapse and he wants them gone, destroyed so that no one will remind him he is weak.

Eventually, a lifetime of dissembling and plotting wins out, intelligence silences base instinct and Loki draws another trembling breath. The girl beside him will live, because it is the best way to get what he wants, for the moment. He needs someone to look after him. When he is stronger, he will consider if her life is worth giving to her.

"Who are you?" he asks. Names are always useful. They make one feel known. Names, in the right hands, can be used to cut deep inside a person.

Briefly, she debates the wisdom of telling him her name and then decides there is no harm and it is too late to withhold little bits of information when she has gone and taken a gigantic step already. "Jane. Jane Foster." Beneath her hands, he grows still.

It is his brother's woman. The one that changed him, so much so that Mjolnir returned as a sign of favour that the banished prince was full ripe for kingship. She spoiled everything.

This, Loki decides, is perfect.

And then he realises something is not quite right. Jane Foster had been spirited away before he could get his hands on her and with the tesseract occupying all his time, it had not been worth the effort digging out Jane just to torment his brother. He had thought to do that later, when Earth and all it was lay under his heel. He could take his time then, dragging it out because pain could be pleasure and he fully intended to enjoy himself. And no matter where they had taken her, Jane Foster surely must have known why she was being hidden, must have seen the news broadcast as his army ravaged Manhattan, must have seen him. So why had she helped him instead of calling the Avengers?

"What's your name?"

She does not know him. With some effort, he sits up and she is all too glad to help him, to pull the blankets back over in a bid to salvage his modesty, or so she imagines.

"Loki." She looks very young, younger than in the pictures he had kept. She is also thin enough to have lost the beauty of being slender. Dark smudges colour the delicate skin beneath her eyes and there is something in those brown depths that remind him of how he used to feel at times, when he still cared about Asgard and the concept of family.

"Loki as in the Norse god?" God of mischief, god of chaos. The god who ended a world. It can't be. Then again, he had fallen out of the sky. Jane thinks it might be a good time to start backing away now but she can't because even when sitting down, he looms over her and the thought that staying still might be the best defence just will not leave her head. It occurs to her that she is scared, somewhat.

"You are a clever mortal." It never fails to please him. Fear, on other people's faces, is a beautiful thing.

"What do you want?"

The question makes him want to laugh. "Dear Jane, answering that question could take lifetimes that you and this world do not have." Then he leans in closer. "For the moment though, your help will suffice."

She knows he is not asking. He is telling, for that is what gods do. Jane also learns one other thing. In spite of her trembling, there is a curiosity that might become overwhelming if she does not control it. That, and the fact that after months of nothing, she feels a spark. She feels alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except the plot. Everything else belongs to Marvel. Not done for profit either, seriously.

Summary: Post Avengers. Banished from Asgard and stripped of his powers, Loki falls through time to meet a young Jane Foster who no longer has stars in her eyes.

_A/N: Hi everyone, here's another chapter. The Muse is burning my candle on both ends. And as always, it was a pleasure to read your comments and to know that what I'm doing is actually working (!). So, if you liked this, let me know. If you have suggestions, better yet. _

**Over the Rainbow**

**III.**

"Now, unchain me." He holds out his hands, straightening his arms and she cannot help but notice the sinewy muscles beneath his skin. He is lean, almost slender but Jane knows she cannot overpower him. Even in his weak state, there is something about him that reminds her of a cobra, crouched and ready to spring. One strike and she would be dead. It would be all too easy to crush her neck with those metal links. She had been a fool to think leaving them on would contain him.

The mortal, Loki realises, is extremely afraid of him and growing more so by the minute. Yet she hesitates, slides in her lower lip just the littlest bit to bite on it as her trembling fingers close the small distance between, hovering over the cuffs. Jane Foster is damnably foolish and if he were a better man, he would consider her brave. "It will not do to make me repeat myself," he says quietly, soundly perfectly reasonable. She shivers and a warm feeling courses through Loki.

He is unprepared though, for the jolt that runs through him as she touches the enchanted metal, fingers feeling for clasps that are not there. The key is a spell; the chains were made to be undone only at the word of Odin himself. Loki feels the force of an entire realm's sorcerers encircling his wrists, blazing to life beneath Jane Foster's questing hands and for a fleeting moment, his eyes are opened and he sees again, touches the invisible currents in the air which the mortals have named magic. Then he hears a loud crack and as both of them gaze at his bonds, riveted, a single long line appears on either of the cuffs. It grows, sprouts more lines like roots, spirals and curls its way over the cool shining surface until it resembles an embellishment of sorts, delicate filigree painted over to disguise the nature of the items. When every inch is covered, when each tendril has found a mate to join itself to in an everlasting web, the bonds shatter. They fall, each piece as tiny as a teardrop, and melt into nothingness as mist does in the morning sun, as does the chain.

Jane cannot help her response. Her jaw drops as she stares open-mouthed at the impossible turned to reality before her eyes. If she had not done so earlier, she would have slapped herself again just to make sure that she is not dreaming, that this is happening. This shakes everything she knows and believes in. The scientist within is trying furiously to theorise where the particles have gone; matter cannot simply be unmade this way. There has to be a way to account for this. And yet everything else inside her is whispering that this is magic. The two need not be exclusive. Magic is science wrapped in mystery and myth. Yet for the moment, this is all the explanation she has.

Loki cannot help his response. He stares at the silver pieces that pour from his wrists into a pocket of space now hidden from his eyes. Power that he could not hope to break lies sundered simply at the touch of her hands. This is beyond his understanding; it is a mystery. The magical art of Asgard undone by a fragile creature who is as amazed as he is at what is happening before them. Here is a riddle he is determined to solve. In this moment, Loki knows that he must keep her alive. If he had given in to his previous desires, he might have been bound for endless days upon this planet. And without his powers, he would surely have died if forced to wander in such a fashion.

Her hands linger on his wrists, warm but frozen with inaction. "Well done." His voice breaks the silence and her gaze flies to his. Instantly, she withdraws, shrinks back and he sees in her eyes the expectation that he will now kill her. Instead, he rubs his wrists almost leisurely, taking the time to examine his hands. He tests his powers again and finds to his great disappointment that the removal of his chains has not returned even the slightest measure of the former. "Where have you placed my clothing?"

Jane swallows and realises that her mouth is completely dry. If she listens intently enough, the sound of her nervous breathing might fill the living room. "Your pants are in the dryer. I had to cut off the rest of your clothing." It occurs to her that this might anger him and she hurries to explain. "You were soaking wet and if I hadn't done it, you might have fallen sick."

"I was wet?"

"You fell into a lake."

She may be frightened but she has a way of making it sound as though he is asking about the obvious. He has no memory of that beyond falling.

"…_Will if you want to live…"_

He had willed it, had unleashed everything he had in order to survive. Loki knows the power of magic driven by desperation, by every ounce of the wielder's mind and heart, by desire so pure that there are no words for it. And it has brought him here, to her.

Those green eyes are shuttered even as they survey her and Jane has the very unpleasant feeling that he is thinking of what he wants to do with her. He has named himself Loki and even if she had thought he might have been mad to claim he is a god, the vanishing chains have convinced her otherwise. She wonders who bound him and what the name of that god is. These are questions that can be asked, much later. If there is a later to begin with. "W-would you like your clothes back?"

He begins to rise, feels the weakness of his form; even the bright flash of hatred towards Odin for punishing him thusly makes him exhausted. "Give me your arm," he orders and seizes it in mid-air when she moves too slowly for his liking. Ignoring her startled cry of pain, he uses her as a prop, makes her bear his weight. "Get up," he hisses and she struggles to her feet, one hand braced on his chest as she balances both of them. The top of her head barely reaches his shoulder. She is diminutive and Loki thinks that his brother will break such a woman.

She does not want to touch him but she has no choice. Jane's face is burning because god or no, he is nude and she has only been with one man and her only experience consists of hastily stolen moments with the lights out which leave her feeling vaguely unsatisfied. The stairs down to the basement prove a huge challenge, even with the aid of a banister and when they finally descend to the bottom step, she switches on only one light. She leaves him to dress in the semi-shadows, his back against the wall while hers is turned. When he is finished, he calls her name. The authoritative tone of his voice identifies it as a command; he might as well have addressed her as 'servant' or 'slave'. Rapidly, she begins to understand the role she will play.

Loki has known hunger before but this is a different kind. Its bite is more potent, more draining and he needs food, now. "I require food," he announces as she helps him back up the steps. Her brows knit together in a furrow. "Surely you have some form of sustenance in this abode?"

"In the kitchen," Jane replies. There is no dining table since her father never got around to buying one before the accident and she has been perfectly contented to eat at the counter. The sight of empty seats would have been too much to bear. After depositing him on the one chair in the place, Jane walks over to the fridge she bought during one of her rare trips to the small town two miles away. She reaches up, takes out a box and tears the side open. Switching on the oven, she pushes the tray inside and sets the timer for fifteen minutes. She hopes Norse gods like macaroni and cheese with a side of creamed corn.

Jane Foster is walking wounded. She is actively avoiding his gaze and has schooled her face into an expression that is somewhat less terrified. Her home though, is more telling of her condition. The house is barely furnished, there are no photographs that humans seem so fond of, the walls are stark white and undecorated. When she retrieved his pants from the mechanism she called a dryer, he noticed that apart from his clothing, there was only hers. This is a place for her merely to exist in. Loki wonders what the source of the pain is.

When what he guesses to be a modern version of the oven makes a sound like a bell struck once, she slips on a thick glove, opens the door and immediately Loki wrinkles his nose at the smell. As she brings the tray towards him, he realises, to his mild horror, that the food she is offering him is the source of that strange scent.

"I'll get some water for you."

When she comes back with a full glass, Jane realises that Loki is merely prodding the food. He looks somewhat fascinated as he watches the cheese adhere itself to the fork and stretch itself into a thin yellow strand as he lifts the former higher and higher into the air. Biting down on her tongue, she resists the urge to tell him to stop playing with his meal. Patiently, she waits by his side, trying not to feel the ache in her knees from having to stand on the spot. Finally, he puts some of it into his mouth. To say he looks revolted would be an understatement. It would be funny, except that gods of every myth and religion have always displayed some capacity for being capricious and this one could kill her simply because he does not like the food. However, he does surprise her by not spitting it out at once. He actually keeps it in his mouth, chewing twice before he swallows.

"This passes as food in your realm?"

"It does. It's pretty popular, actually." She wants to tell him that it is practically a staple in most houses but she doubts that will change his opinion.

"Give me something else."

"There isn't anything else."

Either she had a superpower that helped her stomach the stuff or a genetic defect that prevented her from developing a sense of taste. "Do not lie to me, mortal."

"I'm not." Before he tells her to, she is sweeping across the kitchen and pulls open the door to a contraption that keeps food chilled. It is piled full of identical boxes, all by the same brand. There is nothing else inside, save for a large bottle of water. "This is all I have."

For one moment, Loki misses Asgard, if only for the food he was accustomed to eating there. And even on Earth, he had tasted the finest it had to offer, and some of it came rather close to Asgardian standards. This however, he would wish on his worst enemies. Quickly, he weighs his options and realises there are none. The girl could not possibly know how to hunt and the last thing he wants to do is let her out of his sight. She probably could not cook, neither could he and between the both of them, they might actually produce something viler than the mess on a tray before him.

For a god, he seems rather disciplined. Jane watches as Loki steels himself, takes a deep breath and begins to eat. He barely chews, swallows very quickly and makes her refill the glass several times as he washes the mouthfuls down. "It is beyond me how you manage to eat this."

Jane catches his murmured complaint as she puts the tray in the bin. "It's just food," she says simply and misses the speculative look that flits over his face because she is trying to wipe a blob of creamed corn from her finger.

"I wish to see the rooms upstairs."

She could run, just make a wild break for it because she is much nearer to the kitchen entrance and he is presently in a weakened condition. She will never get another chance like this. It is this same thought that holds her in place, makes her grit her teeth and risk freedom and life for servitude to him. For if she runs and escapes, she can never come back. She can call the police and they will take him away, and he will probably wind up in some secret laboratory having the life wrung out of him through experiments. That way, she will never know, and in spite of herself and the wall of denial she is valiantly trying to maintain, Jane wants to know. She wants him to tell her about the wormhole, and how he opened it and where it leads to and if there are more where that one came from. She wants to ask what the stars are like and if all suns are the same. For that, she hates him because he makes it impossible to be completely numb. But she cannot let him go.

Unfortunately, the only room with a bed is hers and this, Loki claims for himself at once. The look that he gives her is one of sheer arrogance, as though he has a right to it. For a fallen god, he has a lot of attitude. Her mother could have called it cheek. And that thought does not hurt as much as it usually does either, not when she is trying not to glower at him from beneath lowered lashes. "Fine. I'll sleep on the couch downstairs."

"You will not think of running, will you Jane?" His voice is still slightly hoarse, but there is something about the way he speaks, the way his tongue shapes each word to make it sound so silken. And in that genteel softness is steel.

"No," she replies, wishing her voice would at least rise a few octaves above a semi-whisper. But when he looks at her like that, he takes her breath away because she has never seen anything quite as menacing.

"Why is the library almost empty?"

The question hits her like a bolt from the blue. Inside, she snarls because he has just dug a finger into a wound and the bastard knows it, is enjoying it because he smiles and it is almost tender. It takes less than than four steps to walk past that room and she knows because she has counted. He should not even have noticed and she wonders how much he has really seen.

"I don't have books." It is an honest reply, and as much of a non-answer as she can come up with.

"None on the planets, the constellations, the mechanics of the universe? What you people term 'astrophysics'."

"An entirely overrated subject." Cold brown eyes meet his as she raises her chin. "As are the constellations." Without asking for permission, Jane slips out of the room and his grasp, for the present.

Now that, Loki muses as he leans back into the soft pillows, is by far the most interesting thing she has said all day. Her footsteps on the stairs fade away but he is not worried. She may not wish to look him in the eye but whenever she thinks he is not looking, she is transfixed by him. Jane Foster is practically eaten alive by curiosity, although she may choose to pretend otherwise. That is something he can relate to, the relentless drive to unravel the unknown.

Loki drifts back to sleep, content in the knowledge that he has Jane Foster securely under his thumb, even without the use of magic.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except the plot. Everything else belongs to Marvel. Not done for profit either, seriously.

Summary: Post Avengers. Banished from Asgard and stripped of his powers, Loki falls through time to meet a young Jane Foster who no longer has stars in her eyes.

_A/N: Hey everyone, thanks for reviewing and giving me one of two reasons why I should keep writing this. You've been wonderfully kind and encouraging. Some of you have questions and to be honest, they have given me ideas for where I could take this (I must say though, that Loki is mortal at the moment). It's not going to be massive in terms of plot though, more a character study type fic. As always, I hope you enjoy this. _

**Over the Rainbow**

**IV.**

When she opens her eyes, Jane realises that the couch is not that bad for sleeping on, except that she's managed to kick the comforter to the floor. The other fact that registers on a larger scale is that it is still bright outside. Now that, is unusual. Jane is used to very short days and nights that pass when she closes her eyes. It has been awhile since she has seen evening in all its rosy glory. Rolling her neck to work out a slight knot, she walks over to the window and pushes aside the day curtains.

It looks as though a child has dipped its finger in the clouds and has carelessly strewn them over the horizon. Watery gold that melds into a deepening blue forms that canvass and three quarters of a red sun, like a blood orange, is hugging the tops of the trees. Jane takes in the sight briefly before drawing the curtains shut once more. On silent feet and slightly buckling knees, she creeps rather than walks upstairs, to check on Loki.

The black ink of his hair is startling against the white of her sheets, his face perfectly at peace while he sleeps. One arm lies on the pillow, those long and elegant fingers unfurled. His other hand loosely clutches the blanket against his body and Jane thinks to herself that god he may be, but something about the way he sleeps reminds her of a child. Her eyes glide over the bare expanse of his chest and she remembers again that half of his clothing is stashed away in the safe, carefully cut up, completely beyond her ability to repair. Even in her current state, she is not about to bin what might be intergalactic-demi-god clothing because maybe, just maybe, it warrants a second look.

Jane remembers a silky, almost sibilant warning about running away but decides that he cannot possibly be left to wander around her house in such a state. It would be much better for him to cover up. Quietly, she tiptoes to her table, takes the wallet and keys lying on the bare surface, makes doubly sure that she has the latter wrapped tightly in her hand so that the metal does not make a sound and ever so carefully, leaves the house. As she starts up the car, she finds herself praying the sound of the engine will not wake him. Jane does not want to think of what might happen if he catches her in the act of what looks like escape and she knows he will not listen to explanations.

'I don't want to die.' The impression flickers, indelible as it stamps itself in the darkest corners of her mind. She swallows a sudden lump in her throat. Yes, she does not want to die. That is not the same as wanting to live, not entirely. Stepping gently on the accelerator, she manoeuvres the car away from the house, wishing she could do the same with these nascent thoughts that sprout like weeds in the sterile garden of her heart.

Jane only realises she has parked outside the grocery store by default when she slams the door and is greeted by the luridly bright sign which reads "Bill's Groceries". The place does not actually belong to Bill, not anymore. It belongs to his son, Sam, who saw fit to inform Jane of this little titbit while he packed her small mountain of frozen dinners. "You must love your mac and cheese, miss."

There had been a slight lilt to the last word, a half question that was meant to get a name from her. She had been distracted; she had never even read the labels as she scooped armfuls of the boxes up and dumped them in the orange basket at her feet. Now she knew what she would be eating for the next few weeks. And she never gave Sam her name either.

Erratically placed streetlamps dot the small roads in this tiny town. Two streets later, she spots a clothing store and makes a beeline for it. Jane jumps slightly as a mechanical voice chimes 'Welcome!' and she steps in past the revolving doors, which she privately pegs as being highly impractical. To her relief, there is no salesgirl to attend on her, just a cashier reading her novel with all the focus and intensity of a doctor about to perform brain surgery.

On silent feet, Jane heads over to the men's section. There are shirts with checks and stripes, nondescript polo shirts with something that is meant to look like a crocodile embossed on them, T-shirts with slogans that someone must have thought of as smart. She thinks Loki might really kill her if she attempts to dress him in those and gives the lot a miss. Thirty minutes later, and after digging through overly stuffed racks of clothing, Jane examines her find. So there is hope even in the bowels of this abyss of fashion hell. The thought is amusing, almost enough to crack the ghost of a smile.

The green is so dark it could pass for black and she thinks he will like this. The cut is simple, no pockets anywhere to be seen and no obvious stitching on the collar itself. She has taken the black and navy versions as well. She hopes the slim cut black jeans will be acceptable. There are no pants to be found and she cannot picture him wearing the stonewashed, ripped ones she came across, let alone the ones covered in glitter. Jane pays for everything in cash, watching with a mix of resentment and admiration as the cashier, with one eye still firmly on the book, collects the payment and drops the exact amount of change on the counter. Jane slides the money towards her, silencing the clattering coins as she folds them into her palm. She wonders what Loki would do to anyone who treated him in this fashion. The woman would probably wind up as a steaming pile of ash.

Then again, so might she. It is semi-dark when Jane nears her house and the sight of the house lights on makes her swallow. Hard. She is about to find out what the penalty for sneaking out is. Trembling hands make it difficult to pick up the handles of her shopping bag and Jane contemplates the wisdom of driving away. Plucking up the remnants of her courage, she puts the key in the lock, twists it. She is half-expecting the door to be ripped open, for Loki to descend on her in all his wrath and punish her in unmentionably horrible ways. Jane vaguely recalls something about lips being stitched shut. Strangely, nothing happens, not even when she shuts the door, bolts it and makes her way upstairs on shaking legs. This feels even worse than the time when she had been fourteen and had stayed out too late with her secret boyfriend. The idiot had thought it amusing to watch her sleep in his car. 'Technically his dad's car,' Jane corrects herself. As she pads down the corridor, she catches a whiff of peppermint. It's coming from her room.

"So, the god knows how to work the showers," Jane murmurs, staring at the steam glazed mirror, noting how the white has begun folding back from the glass. She can still feel the heat in the room, like an invisible wrap and a hand on the taps confirms the fact that Loki likes his water hot. Very hot. Maybe several degrees below boiling. He has also helped himself to her peppermint soap. It had been the lone green bar remaining on the shelf when she had gone to buy toiletries. Jane thinks about all the rose scented soaps, the only other choice she had been left with, stored in the cabinet and the unthinkable happens. She smirks. It is startling, to see herself, to see something more than a pale flat line where her mouth used to be.

On the ceiling, something thumps and her mouth twists into a scowl. How did he get up there? And then she remembers that she has never locked that door. She went up there, once. After that, never again. No one should be up there. No one has the right, nobody.

The pain is what alerts her to the fact that her fingers are curled so tightly against her palms that the nails are cutting into flesh. In spite of the lingering warmth of the bathroom, she shakes, feels emotion swell her throat so it becomes hard to swallow. Her eyes burn.

No one should be up there.

* * *

The door opens so quietly that Loki almost does not hear it. "And where have you been?" he asks casually, not bothering to turn around.

Jane wants to scream at this intrusion. Surely he can see that she has never used the deck. The wood is varnished to a deep mahogany brown, 'Jane-Brown' as her mother used to call it. And while the rattan furniture has been rendered weather resistant by the miracle of chemicals, the glass that covers the table-top is heavily spotted with dried rain water and the occasional bird droppings. Loki has pulled up a chair next to the telescope wrapped in a shield of tarp; he is so temptingly close to the railings.

"I'd…" She hears her voice crack and stops. She must try again. She must hold on to herself. "You needed clothes. I left them in your room." The use of that possessive feels bitter, somehow.

Ah. So that was where she had gone. He had opened his eyes to discover night had descended and the house was in darkness. Although he knows where the light switches are and how they function, Loki prefers the invisibility shadows offer. He has always been able to see more clearly in the night than anyone else on Asgard and he finally knew why when he had touched that casket and accepted the curse of his lineage. It makes sense now, why Jotunheim was always in shadows. They had no need of the light.

Finally he turns, partially. It is lovely to see how hard she is trying to contort herself into a semblance of controlled apathy. And though he lacks the use of his magic, he reads her as easily as the vast library that had once been his. Loki remembers, feels the dry smoothness of each ancient page turn under the caress of his fingers, even as his eyes run over Jane. The tightness of her body, the way she has locked her arms around herself, the way she tries to shrink into her own skin. But here, the banked fires inside flicker and he sees them through her eyes.

"It hurts you to be here."

That is what Jane has been afraid of, ultimately. It was no coincidence that he referenced astrophysics. She wants to know how he knows. Perhaps it is true, gods are omnipotent. But omnipotent gods tend to do the casting out; they are not the ones cast down from the heavens.

"It is even worse to see me sitting in this chair. An alien presence where your father and mother ought to be, out here beneath the stars you were supposed to admire as a family."

Jane sucks in a breath but it does little to alleviate the awful ache in her heart as he squeezes it with his malicious words, like hooks pulling at the stitches of wounds that have yet to be healed.

Three chairs. That was how he had known. There is very little that can be hidden and he will continue to stab at her until she is completely unravelled. She does not want to know what lies beyond that point.

"Why didn't you use the telescope?"

He is taken aback by her question. Something in his expression must have betrayed him because the little mouse actually looks him in the eyes for a moment before her gaze darts away.

"You would have realised this place was meant for three within minutes of coming up. But you've continued to sit here. Furniture can't be that fascinating. It must be the stars." He stares at her, and Jane is reminded of a basilisk her mother once showed her. Still, she seems to have rendered the god speechless. "You want to see them but not get too close."

She does not say that this is because it hurts but he hears it loud and clear. "And you would know all about that, wouldn't you Jane?" he hisses.

"Not as much as you." The answer shocks both of them, for completely different reasons. Being spiteful feels so good, and it appals Jane that she is capable of deriving satisfaction from another's pain. It dulls her own. So that's why he keeps doing this.

"Are you sure?"

He's back in control, with that silken, serpentine voice. And Jane realises that she is wrong, that she does know more about that than she thinks. This is her parents' house and she is living here but has chosen to keep it as barren of their presence as much as possible.

"No."

He has drawn enough blood for one day and Loki decides to stop for now. After all, he must leave something for tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. She does have claws though. Getting her to flex and retract them will be amusing while he thinks of what more he can do with her. After all, this is the woman who came closer than anyone else to finding the existence of the Bifrost. If he is ever going to return to Asgard and retrieve what Odin has stolen, she is his only hope.


End file.
